Tag: Will Stanton

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When Things Don’t Work by Will Stanton

One person said that this week’s topic is “When Things Don’t Work.” Another person thought the topic is “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Take your pick, or maybe do both.

Left’s start with “Things Don’t Work Out.” The funniest thing happened to me on my way to perfection. It turns out that there is no such thing, far from it. Just like so many young people, I once thought that I’d always stay relatively healthy. Boy, was that a mistaken notion! I have been plagued with health problems my whole life; and now I must deal on a daily basis with some serious, probably permanent, afflictions. Good health certainly did not work out.

I also thought that I had plenty of years to become educated, build a career, find a life-partner, accrue financial security, and still have time to relax. That did not work out either. It seems that (in the early words of the late Walt Kelly) “tempus just keeps fugitting along.” The majority of my years are behind me.

When I was young, I very naïvely thought that most people are knowledgeable, rational, kindly, and caring. For the most part, my trust in people didn’t work out either. I look about me and see how so many people are prone to lying, cheating, violence, and just plain stupidity. Like most of us, I unfortunately have been the target of such behavior over the years. Yes, there are some good people in the world, and I’ve appreciated them, both those whom I have been fortunate enough to know personally and also those I hear about. Still, my general belief in people did not work out.

So, there are three examples of “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Now for “When Things Don’t Work.”

I’ll allow myself to mope yet again about my life-long wish to be able to express the music inside me by playing the piano well but finding that desire to be an impossibility. Succinctly said, my hands don’t work. They are not even average hands, let alone lacking the athletic ability to play piano truly well. Woe is me. Enough said about that.

Still, I realize that some parts of me work better than that of some of my friends. For example, Larry has diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, hip replacements, leg braces, and uses canes to walk. Mike complains of being overweight, has bad feet, and wears special boots to get around. I recall one day the three of us driving up to a street-corner and stopping at a red light. Our attention was drawn to an exuberant teenager on a skateboard, zipping down the sidewalk, doing kick-jumps over the curbs and twirls just for fun. He appeared to be taking for granted his good health and athleticism, dancing down the walk like a young colt in springtime. At this point, I heard Mike grumble, half in humor but also half as a lament, “It’s not fair.” Then Larry morosely responded, “And, everything works.” To be honest and being familiar with Larry’s previous quips, I know that he was referring to more than just the teen’s athleticism.

In life, in the real world, a lot of things don’t work; much does not work out. I suppose we just have to keep plugging along, making do with the cards we have been dealt. That reminds me, each Sunday I have been playing with friends the card-game “Samba,” and I have been losing for weeks. With the cards I have been dealt, that has not worked out either.

8 December 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Sports by Will Stanton

First, let me define the word “sports” in my own terms. To me, “sports” means physical education and recreation, activities that are healthful and enjoyable. I certainly do not mean anything like professional football, basketball, or baseball. Those are not sports in that word’s original intent. Those are multi-billion-dollar mega-businesses. The amount of money acquired and spent is obscene. Also, the fact that millions of people “go crazy” sitting in bleachers or in their recliners at home watching, screaming, and shouting, but not otherwise exercising, seems to be some sort of insanity. There certainly is not much healthful exercise, especially when drinking beer and eating tons of junk-food.

And by extension, I’m not referring to football, basketball, or baseball in high schools or in peewee league. Winning at all costs seems to have become the main concern, not the well-being of the participants. Too often, young players have been coerced into continuing to play with injuries and even concussions. Winnng has become so important that arguments sometimes have broken out between parents, coaches, and officials. Unlike the U.S., Canada is sane enough to have eliminated football from its school programs.

Let me tell you what physical education and recreation activities I have engaged in from my earliest years onward. Of course, not everyone needs to attracted to the same activities as I, but one can see from my list that what I did was for enjoyment and health.

As in most grade schools, we kids played kickball and softball. We had fun, and winning was not so important. We even had some lessons in square-dancing. Around home, we rode bikes a lot. We also played all kinds of games which provided us with lots of fun and exercise.

The high schools in my town were not big enough to have swimming pools, tennis courts, or some other facilities that larger school-systems might have had in bigger cities. Besides, they felt obliged to select footbal, basketball, and baseball as their primary activities, just like most public schools. Instead, my parents had me engaged in all kinds of sports and physical activities for enjoyment and good exercise outside of school.

We had access to the university swimming pool, and we often made use of it. My father set up a good badminton court in our yard; and, for many years, we played badminton so often that we each became quite good. Later on, I even won playing a man from Japan. In the same yard, we often played croquet – – backyard rules, of course, not international rules.

As we became older, we often rode bikes to see friends, which expanded our explorations to outlying neighborhoods. Because the wooded hills were so close by, we often took long hikes, enjoying the beauties of nature as well as getting good exercise. Sometimes during summers, we drove out to two diffferent lakes to go swimming or, once in a while, canoeing.

Starting at age seventeen, I spent a couple of years learning judo. The following year, I also started mainline Japanese karate and continued that for many years. Both disciplined the mind and developed skills often not reached through other activities.

I never did join a team in school. I know that some people claim that there are all kinds of advantages to joining a team, supposedly learning self-discipline, drive, the ability to endure hard-knocks and defeat. Of course, there is the social aspect as well. Apparently in most public schools, the “jocks” often seem to become the most popular.

There appears to be another possible advantage that has nothing to do with actual physical education and recreation, and that is listing those activities on one’s school-record. Many universities seem to prefer accepting applicants who appear to have “well rounded school records.” I know that the ambitious mother of a friend of mine went to extremes in this way. She had him join football for a while, then track, then debate, then this and that, adding them all to his school-record even if he did not remain long with any particular activity. He had reasonably good grades but not great ones, yet he managed to be accepted by Harvard. The captain of our high-school football team also was accepted by Harvard. In contrast, my brother had one of the best academic records the school ever saw, along with high recommendations from his teachers; yet, because he had not joined a team, he was not accepted at Harvard. Apparently, they must have thought that he was not “well-rounded.”

There certainly was one downside for me in junior high. The coach noticed that I was quite good in baseball, pitching and batting. He asked me to join the team. My mother said no because she was concerned about possible injury to my hands. The coach never forgave me for not joining. He happened to be the wolrd-history teacher; and even though I made the highest score on all the tests, he never would give me more than a B. I was terribly upset, but I was too naïve to take this up with my parents or the school principle.

It seems to me that, in these days, people most often think of “sports” as ritualized combat involving lots of money and endless rhetoric by sports-casters, pontificating as though it all were so very important. It has become almost like another religion, so passionate are some people. At the same time, many Americans appear to have become fat and lazy. They seem to think that just sitting and watching others running around is exercise for them, too. It amazes me, and somewhat depresses me, that, just in my own city, 44,000 people showed up to sit for hours in the bleachers just to see a pro-football practice session.

But all may not be lost. I must say that I have seen some evidence of improvement among certain socio-economic groups. I recently have taken some walks in the foothills west of Denver, and I was impressed with seeing a large number of young people hiking, jogging, and mountain-biking; but this may be more evident in Colorado than in many other states. There also were some older folks walking. I continue to go five times per week to adult-swim at the nearby city pool, and I see some familiar faces who regularly swim there, too. And, during good weather, the city park nearby is filled with people bicycling, jogging, playing volleyball, tennis, and Frisbee. So, maybe there is some hope left that there are people who engage in, as I see it, true sports for enjoyment, good health, and re-creation.

© 10 October 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Clothes by Will Stanton

I’m not going to talk about the $10,000 gowns that some wealthy women wear nor the $2,000 suits that some well-healed men wear. I also am not going to talk about the way I dress. I don’t have a GQ figure, and I don’t wear GQ clothes. Instead, I’m going to talk some about the clothes that many young people wear and contrast that with my own generation.

I was sitting in a restaurant, and the young waitress came up to my table. I noted that she was wearing jeans that were so tight that the waistline was bound to cut off blood circulation. Doctors have warned women about that. She wore them so low that her plump tummy hung out over the jean-tops and below the tight blouse that came down just below her breasts. I suppose that she considered showing off a bare tummy was sexy. Some testosterone-agitated boys and aging men probably found her appearance titillating, but I wondered how this peculiar clothing style had come about and why girls choose to dress that way at work.

Ironically, girls’ wearing very tight clothes is in marked contrast with boys’ baggy apparel for a long time now. While seated at the table at the very same restaurant, a teenage boy came in. He probably weighed all of 110 pounds, but his shirt was so huge that it could have fit a man who weighed 250 and stood a foot taller. Even more silly was that he was wearing his jeans literally below his butt, or more accurately, where his butt should be; for this young kid didn’t have any butt, hips, or waist. At least his boxer shorts covered that area. His pants were so ridiculously baggy that two boys could have worn them at the same time. I hope that he realized that, if he tried to rip off a 711, there would be no way of his outrunning a cop. Those baggy pants undoubtedly would become tangled up around his legs, tripping him.

Shorts and swim suits are not comfortably and practically short anymore. They hang half way down the calf. Are males’ bare thighs now considered to be too shocking to see? They aren’t for women. Trying to swim in those things is like having a drag-line attached to the legs. Where did this idea come from, and why has this bizarre style lasted so long?

Boys and girls certainly did not dress that way when I was young. Of course, I grew up in an era that is roundly satirized in the movie “Pleasantville.” That biting satire portrayed life in the 1950s and ’60s as “black-and-white, overly conservative, restrictive, unimaginative.” There is some truth to that; however, I have to admit that I viewed the clothes that young people wore then to be appealing. Girls did wear slacks or shorts on occasion, but they also often wore cotton dresses that reached just down to below the knee which, I thought, enhanced their femininity. I thought the girls attractive in either case, even without having their tummies hanging out or the tops of their thighs showing.

Boys once wore shirts and T-shirts that naturally fit their form and did not hang down below their butts. They also tended to wear form-fitting slacks and jeans, pants not so baggy as to make Charlie Chaplain’s trousers look tailor-made in contrast. Their pants still could be sexy enough, even with keeping them up around their waistlines. Most boys chose pants that were somewhat loose but not so floppy as to obscure the wearers’ gender, as many girls and some of the boys were quick to note. 

I do admit that a few of the boys I knew in school wore pants so tight that one could tell whether or not they were circumcised. That certainly was true with Randy, the very sexy kid whose pants appeared to be in danger of cutting him in half or exploding apart at one particularly revealing seam, which I actually saw happen on one occasion. That sort of thing tended to draw attention. He was a school-band member, and I was amused to learn that, when the band went on over-night tours, some band members argued as to who would have the privilege of sharing a motel room with Randy. I have no evidence as to whether just his appearance fostered such controversy or other factors contributed to his popularity.

It appears to me that, at some point in America’s history of clothing styles, arbitrators of taste chose to affect a reversal for the younger consumer. Modesty no longer is a factor in designing clothes for females. From bathing suits to ball gowns, young women can choose to expose as much skin as they dare. As for young guys, especially teens, the goal appears to be to camouflage the physical form as much as possible. Have clothes-makers concluded that the male form is too titillating or even obscene? I don’t necessarily advocate returning to Randy’s style of pants that were so tight as to potentially emasculate the wearer, but I do maintain that the return to more sensible, form-fitting clothes for males is long overdue. Let’s get rid of bagginess once and for all.

© 01 September 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Sweetness Personified by Will Stanton

The brief experience I’m describing here took place in college during the Vietnam War. That era seems so long ago, many people today who might read this story may have no connection with that war, perhaps little or no understanding.

The Vietnam War was a disaster for America and many Americans. Nothing positive was accomplished by it. Some people in government and some civilians knew that the Vietnamese were not about to attack Boise, Idaho; and the U.S. had no rational or moral reason to invade Vietnam. We lost more than 50,000 fine young people in that war, let alone all the injuries to those who returned . That war created turmoil and protests in our country, and much of the rest of the world looked upon the U.S. with nervous suspicion.

Something that seems to have been relatively ignored about the many forms of injuries was that a large number of people came back to the States emotionally wounded. Many suffered from PTSD, some turned to alcohol, and many had picked up the habit in Nam of smoking pot to counteract their anxiety. Marriages and families suffered. The war changed many lives.

At college, I encountered a young student name Frank. Frank was tall and slim with very boyish features. He was quite good looking. He radiated warmth and kindness, a noticeable gentleness of personality that could be described as “sweetness personified.”

I met Frank, or more precisely, Frank met me, because apparently he sought me out. To my surprise, he had become very interested in me. I felt honored that Frank found me to be attractive and personable. We began to spend some time with each other. To my regret, that period of time was all too brief. I was surprised and very moved when I found out the reason why.

Frank appeared to be like just any other young college freshman, so I was surprised to hear that he had spent a tour of duty in Vietnam, not at any base or headquarters, but right out in the jungles and rice paddies. It was very much against Frank’s nature to wish to harm anyone, and he had no desire to kill. In fact, he refused to do so. Instead, he was a medic, tending to the soldiers’ injuries as best he could.

On one occasion, and only that one occasion, Frank spoke of his experiences in Vietnam. During his tour of duty, he daily witnessed the carnage of warfare, the horrifying injuries that our young people suffered – – shrapnel and severe bullet wounds, infected punctures from punji stakes, burns, blindness. Because the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army soldiers were often quite small, they would aim their AK47s low and let the bullets ride up because of their kick. Poor Frank had to tend to a number of soldiers whose genitals had been shot off. Frank told me that his seeing so many boys terribly wounded and suffering changed him forever. The world no longer seemed the beautiful and promising place that he once believed in duriing his innocent childhood.

Frank grew up in New Lexington, Ohio, a very small village of about only 3,000 at the time and consisting of a string of 19th-century, two-story brick stores and quaint, modest homes.

Tucked in the green hills of Southeastern Ohio, the village must have felt like a quiet and safe harbor away from the turmoil and sorrows of the world outside.

The trauma of Viet Nam weighed upon Frank. The world seemed to be a dangerous and unhappy place. He missed New Lexington where he felt more comfortable and secure. His interest in me changed when he met another student from his own village who felt the same way as he did. The last time that I saw Frank, he told me that he was dropping out of college and moving with his new friend back home. He said that he planned to stay there, to remain isolated from the harshness of the world outside.

I never saw Frank again, yet I never have forgotten him. I hope that he found peace and happiness there. He deserved it, for he well may have been the sweetest person I ever knew.

© 01 May 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Magic by Will Stanton

For some of you, please bear with me for just a moment. Today’s
topic is Magic, and what easier way to start the conversation than with some
references, using them simply as a preface to my main thoughts, references to
the currently very popular books and movies about Harry Potter. We can’t be
more magical than that. Anyone who knows him is well aware of his great magical
powers. After my preface, I’ll then tell you about a few of the things I would do if I possessed such great
powers.
Harry’s special powers came about by, first, his having been
born a wizard, not a mere mortal (or “muggle,” if you will.) Then he
honed his skills and learned many more by attending Hogwarts School. During
those several years, he also gained from practical experience utilizing his
magical powers. Then finally, author J.K. Rowling writes that Harry had
acquired the three instruments of great power: the Elder Wand (the most
powerful wand in the world), the Resurrection Stone (with which one can bring
people back to life), and the Invisibility Cloak (which hides the person
possessing it from Death.) Harry could be the most powerful wizard in the whole
world.
Rowling then writes that Harry, admirably demonstrating his
modesty and his wariness of any one person possessing such vast powers, tosses
aside the Resurrection Stone and then breaks and discards the Elder Wand. Good
old Harry, modest and of good character right to the end. Logically, however,
there was a precedent of someone possessing all three instruments of power
without having abused such powers, Harry’s own friend and headmaster Professor
Dumbledore. He had those great
powers but apparently did not abuse them.
Harry might not have been able to bring back all those good
people who died at the hands of the evil wizard, Lord Voldemort and his
minions, but at least he could have helped to heal the many injured and
traumatized. With a mere flick or two of his wand, he could have rebuilt
Hogwarts that had been left in shambles after the last confrontation with the
evil hordes. I can think of so many additional, magnanimous uses of such
powers.
Yes I admit, if I were Harry, I would have done a few minor
things for myself, too. Why not? For example, why not fix his eyesight so that
he would not have to go around with those eye glasses that always seemed to
become broken? Then, now that Voldemort is gone, he might get rid of the
lightning-scar on his forehead. There was no need to go around the rest of his
life with that mark of evil. And, how about unobtrusively growing an inch or
three, considering that Harry was so short? (I’m talking about his height.)
Now getting on with the supposed reality, this poor world seems
always to have been plagued with hordes of evil Lord Voldemort, those persons who
have caused death, trauma, and great destruction. Some start wars or otherwise
engage in various levels of violence. Crime is rampant. Lack of empathy and
civility permeate humankind. So many people seem to be prone to continually
creating toxic levels of fear, suspicion, intolerance, and hate merely by their
words, words that seem to drip with acid. One such character in Tolkien’s
“Lord of the Rings” was known as “Wormtongue,” a singularly
appropriate name. I guess that such evil is why Canada has outlawed one
American television network from opening an affiliate in Canada. Canada
actually has a law against networks lying. Amazing! I wish that the U.S. had
such a law and it were enforced. The world and our own nation suffer from such
people on a daily basis. Oh, how I would like to do something about that if
only I had great magical powers!
How I also would like to eliminate illiteracy, ignorance,
economic hardship, the sad decline of culture and society, including the
lamentable failure to raise a huge portion of our children so that they become
well prepared, happy, and productive members of society. There is so much that
needs attending to among humankind.
Even without the deficiencies and destructiveness of humankind,
the world itself has plenty of troubles: global warming, natural disasters,
disease, and possibly an asteroid or meteor crashing into the earth. The powers
of nature and the universe appear to be overwhelming; however, some good, solid
magic might be able to tone down the impact of such troubles, even if just a
little.
I know that we all are supposed to accept reality, to not engage
excessively in fantasy; yet it is easy to understand how many of us do see what is and wish how things could be, and then possibly become frustrated. There
are some people who do have sufficient abilities and truly influential
positions where they might make some positive differences. Unfortunately, such
positive people are few and far between. For the rest of us poor souls,
however, slipping into fantastic thoughts and wishes can become rather
attractive. Oh, Harry! Where are your powers when we need them?

© 22 August 2013 

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known by Will Stanton

I know the world is full of
gay people (using the currently popular definition of the term), and they dress
and behave in many different ways.  If,
however, the person who chose this topic was thinking of the stereotypical gay
guy with distinctive apparel or mannerisms who often draws attention to
himself, I really have not hung around very many gays like that.  If I use that frame of reference, however,
then I would have to think of young Peter whom I met in college.
Peter did, in fact, draw
attention to himself; but he seemed to be able to do it in a way that
fascinated people, never repelled them. 
I suppose that he had the advantage of being remarkably good looking, as
well as intelligent and charismatic. 
I  observed  people’s body-language that supported this
fact.  Sometimes, I’d see straight guys
encounter a gay guy and then immediately draw away in distaste; whereas, with
Peter, they involuntarily would lean forward, eyes wide-open, fascinated.  Other gays on campus did not fare so well as
he did.  I know of at least one gay who
was beaten up, but even the homophobes just stared at Peter, and that is no
exaggeration.  Straight guys seemed to be
far too taken with Peter to ever consider being unkind to him.
Peter’s heritage was an
unlikely pairing of Polish and Sicilian ancestry.  He had the fine, classic facial features of a
Polish aristocrat, and I could imagine that his mother resembled Tadzio’s
mother in the film “Death in Venice.”  
He also flaunted a mane of golden locks, much like Tadzio’s.  His skin was a smooth, honey-tan.  Apparently, the only obvious inheritance from
his Sicilian father was the ability to tan without burning.
Peter obviously was very
aware of his good looks and their effect upon people.  He enjoyed being noticed.  He did confide in me, however, one concern
about his physical self.  His body appeared
to be rather soft and smooth, even slightly androgynous; and he wondered if he
innately was less masculine than most college-age guys.
Peter chose clothes that
straight guys would be embarrassed to wear. 
Between Peter’s physical appearance, his cute clothes, and his confident
way of talking and walking, he never failed to draw attention.
Peter had a large group of
gay friends, plus an endless string of guys persistently trying to get Peter
into bed, and a series of trailing hangers-on that people unkindly referred to
as “fag-hags.”  It was nothing to see
Peter cheerfully making his way somewhere, trailed by several enamored
acquaintances, much like moths to a flame.
Peter was an unabashed
flirt. He knew when people were staring at him. 
If he was in a teasing mood, he could embarrass his admirers by
sensuously displaying himself. He might smile at them and not leave until the
observers turned red with embarrassment. 
 
From what Peter told me, I
think that he enjoyed flirting with straight guys.  He once answered an ad to share expenses with
two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring break. When they drove
up to Peter’s house, he appeared wearing tiny, baby-blue shorts and a little
pink sweater.  And, when he came
flouncing down the front steps to the van, his gay house-mate called out, “Have
a good time, and don’t get any nice boys into trouble!”  The two guys’ jaws dropped.  Apparently, the straight guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over into a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he later described it, “the meat in the
sandwich.”  Once Peter arrived in Florida,
he donned a diaphanous caftan, strutted upon the beach, and immediately found
housing and entertainment during his stay because he was picked up by a member
of one of America’s most wealthy and prominent families.  I have chosen not to mention the name.  Then he had the ride home with the two
straight guys to enjoy.
No one could mistake Peter
as being anything other than gay, but he had no interest in drag.  Some of his friends; however, thought that he
was too pretty not to try it, at least on one occasion.  They decided to dress Peter up for a big
party that would have lots of straight guys there with their dates.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. Their abandoned dates were
furious. Peter was so convincing that they never discovered that he was a guy
in drag.  He could be flamboyant, but he did
not care for drag. He never did that again.
On a few occasions, I paled
around with Peter, but we never did anything particularly gay or
titillating.  We took a hike around the
state park, went to see the film “Death in Venice” together, and sometimes just
hung out talking.  Even though I admired
his good looks, I never asked to go to bed with Peter.  I liked him just for who he was.  He wondered why I had not asked.  I replied that, apparently, everyone else
continually asked him, and my asking him simply would place my friendship on
their same level.  My friendship could be
misinterpreted, implying that having sex was all that I really was interested
in.  That impressed him, for when he
graduated and left college, he gave me some gifts including three photos of
himself.  The color one is included with
this story.  I have one very large,
glass-framed composite-portrait in silver that was part of his final
commercial-art portfolio.  He wrote on
the back of the picture, “Love ya always, Peter.”
The last time that I talked
with Peter, he expressed, for the first time that I observed, some loss of
confidence.  Here he had graduated and
was going out into the real world.  He
was afraid of how people would treat him, his being so obviously gay.  He imagined that he might have to limit
himself to living on the East Coast or West Coast where there might be a
greater percentage of tolerant people.  I
hope that he chose well.
I often have wondered what
became of Peter.  Out of curiosity, I did
a couple of searches on the web.  All
that I found were listings for several people with the same name, but none
appeared to be “The Peter.”  Perhaps it
is it is just as well that I do not have a current photo of him.  We all have aged, and even he was not
immortal.  I’ll just remember him as he
was, the golden, cheerful, charismatic Peter. 
And just maybe, he might discover our blog and read this story.                                     
© 04 April 2014 

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Pushing the Buttons by Will Stanton

I try to go swimming several times each week for exercise. I go during what is called “Senior Swim.” I call it “Old Farts Swim,” for the elderly wrecks of humanity who show up there plainly exhibit the ravages of time. I sometimes have wondered what the adolescents from preceding classes during summer think when they view in the locker room these shambling husks of once healthy men. Are they able to foresee their own doom, or can they not relate?

There are some nice people who show up during Senior Swim. There is one particular man and one kind woman that I usually talk with. I often swim back and forth, head out of water, discussing world events or various pleasant topics. I try to avoid negative or disturbing topics.

There is a group of old farts, however, who appear to embody all the worst of the all-too-numerous Neanderthals of our society. Actually, I should not use that word to describe them; that would be denigrating Neanderthals. Because they appear to rely primarily upon the reptilian core of their brains, perhaps I should refer to them as “dinosaurs.”

These old farts appear to be politically and socially delusional. Fact and reality have no value to them and consistently are ignored. They are proud of the fact that their only source of information is Fox Noise, the attack-propaganda outlet for the extreme right-wing. Ironically, they believe that all other news sources are left-wing, socialist propaganda that should not be listened to. They do read books, especially Ann Coulter and Bill O’Reilly.

These old farts also seem to be filled with hate. They use that word a lot. “I hate Jimmy Carter. I hate Ted Kennedy. I hate Obama. I hate Nancy Pelosi,” and on and on. When they choose to orally attack someone or something, that emotion of hate is clearly evident in their voices and facial expressions.

I generally am very tolerant and always civil with people. The cumulative effect of the dinosaurs’ harangues, either overheard as I swim by or shared with several of us, can eventually become an irritation. I remain civil, but I sometimes succumb to the desire to “push their buttons.” I have created a persona for myself of being a very conservative thinker who, on occasion, becomes mystified and frustrated by the transgressions of the dinosaur-politicians, media pundits, and fundamentalist preachers who are far too numerous and influential in our nation. Then, I say something to old farts, “in all innocence” and as though I am hoping that I may gain from their responses a glimmer of understanding of why such “good conservatives” would engage in such terrible deeds or why they would say something so hypocritical and ironic in view of what these people have said or done in the past.

In short, I actually am trying to get them to think rationally based upon fact and reality. If I were to sound combative in my oral responses, they would explode into anger; so I do not. Because I speak to them with civility, the content of what I’m saying simply mystifies them. For a moment, they have blank stares and no comment. Then, they either go on with what they have been saying without any acknowledgment that something was presented to them for consideration, or they return to the same delusional claim made previously.

For example, one dinosaur stated, as though matter of fact, “Jimmy Carter is the worst president that nation ever had.” Of course, he ignores the facts that Carter is an honest man, continues to do good for the country and did a lot internationally, which won him the Nobel Peace Prize, secretly got six of our diplomat-hostages out of Iran, and would have had all the rest out before the next election if some influential right-wingers had not secretly gone to Iran and offered to sell weapons to the Iranians if they delayed releasing our remaining hostages until moments after Reagan’s inauguration. Of course, that was treason and denied Carter a second term, but that is how dinosaur-politicians operate. The response of the farts often is, “I haven’t heard that,” which means, “that can’t be true.” Still, I was able to do a little bit of button-pushing. Ironically, the dinosaurs speak of Democrat’s fictitious efforts to “steal elections,” ironic and hypocritical also in light of what we now know what happened in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections.

Then one day, one of them related a whole string of national and international accomplishments that he attributed to Nixon. My response was, “That’s puzzling. All the historical documents attribute those successes to President Carter.” The dinosaur responded simply with a mystified look and stated, “I thought it was Nixon.“

On another occasion, one dinosaur adamantly asserted that, “America has the number-one healthcare system in the world.” I answered with, “That’s curious. Some in-depth studies of healthcare systems throughout the world list the U.S. as number 37th behind Slovenia.” After a moment of confused silence, the dinosaur responded with, “But, we still are number one.” The facts were not accepted, but at least I may have received a little satisfaction from my button-pushing.

Another of the herd of dinosaurs often ejaculated the claim that “Kennedy was a terrible president .” After the umpteenth time that he said that, I “innocently” asked him, “Aren’t you pleased that Kennedy gave you and your family another fifty years of life?” Of course, he has no knowledge or what I’m referring to; and if he did, he would deny the facts. That fact that we now know about the Cuban Missile Crisis is that our own military wanted to invade Cuba and, supposedly out of consequential necessity, have a nuclear first-strike against the Soviet Union. The U.S. may well have done so without the intervention of Jack and Robert Kennedy. The Kennedys, instead, solved the crises through political back-channels. The fact from Russia is that Khrushchev’s own son revealed that his father told him that he was ready to respond to any U.S. action with a retaliatory nuclear strike had the U.S. attacked Cuba. The dinosaur gave no response. He just turned off his mind and refused to consider that information. Again, my button-pushing probably satisfied only me.

Of course, the dinosaurs believe that Republicans can do no wrong. One of them sternly announced to me, “Republicans never have done anything wrong Only the Democrats have; and it’s not just because they are incompetent, it’s because they have a conspiracy to destroy our nation!” Isn’t interesting that they believe that our nation in divided into two groups of people, good – – meaning Tea Party bloviators, radical Republicans, and right-wing militias, versus evil – – Democrats, socialists, professors, Hollywood, and pot-smoking hippies. Fortunately, I don’t appear to them to be in one of those evil groups, although they may hate me behind my back if I have required them to attempt to engage in factual, logical thinking.

The dinosaur’s’ blindness and hypocrisy regarding sexual transgressions is mind-boggling. Over the years, a bunch of conservatives have professed to be obedient, God-fearing Christians. They sign the conservative pledge of monogamy and faithfulness, and then have had sex with mistresses, prostitutes, underage girls and boys. Some of those politicians even were sponsors of legislation against the vary acts they have committed. When yet another naughty dinosaur makes the news, I may be attempted again to push the old farts’ buttons by “innocently” expressing consternation that an “otherwise good Republican” was caught stalking Congressional pages even though he had written legislation against it; or a homophobe, who wrote anti-gay legislation, was caught having sex with an underage boy. After I have pushed their buttons, they respond with the usual, “I never heard that on Fox.”

Dinosaurs have a third way of responding to unwelcome news by immediately trying to deflect that bad news by pointing out that a Democrat recently had done something terribly wrong, such as being arrested for speeding and given a traffic ticket. For some reason, they don’t see the discrepancy between the Republican’s immoral and illegal acts such as corrupting the democratic process versus the Democrat’s traffic offense.

And finally, the fact that Bill Clinton had extramarital sex warranted his being impeached, whereas the Bush gang lied to the nation, started an unwarranted war that cost the nation thousands of lives and five trillion dollars, put our nation’s reputation into the dumpster, violated international treaties by engaging in torture and crimes against humanity, all of which were similar charges against the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials that resulted in the perpetrators being hanged. Apparently however, the Bush junta’s crimes did not warrant impeachment of Bush or bringing criminal charges against the whole evil bunch.

Yes, on occasion, I have succumbed to the temptation of pushing the dinosaurs’ buttons. I few times, I have expressed supposed mystification and confusion at the egregious transgressions of that unelected Bush administration and the terrible, continuing consequences to the nation and the world as a whole. The old farts are beginning to muse that the U.S. should never have gone into Iraq and Afghanistan, but usually they respond just by repeating how terrible Jimmy Carter was.

Over the years, I have grown older and perhaps more weary, because I seldom feel the urge or have the energy to push dinosaur buttons. I understand that I never will change them, never be able to encourage them to learn real facts and to practice high quality critical thinking skills. That’s a lost cause. Nowadays, my occasional expressions of mystification and consternation may be expressed only to like-minded friends. There is little practical purpose in doing so, however, other than just “venting my spleen.” As the old saying goes, sharing similar observations with friends is like “preaching to the choir.”

© 05 May 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Being Gay Is … by Will Stanton

I awoke feeling exuberant, in an especially gay mood for early morning. It was the weekend, and I had no classes to attend. I was free to go where I wanted and to do what I chose, and I already had planned to take a woodland hike. The sun was shining bright and gay, and the temperature just perfect, warm enough to hike without a jacket yet brisk enough not to become overheated.

In cheerful, gay spirits, I quickly finished my breakfast and prepared to meet my hiking companion for the day. Eric W. was a Norwegian exchange student and looked the part, blond and Nordic. The doorbell rang, and I found Eric standing at the door right on-time. He, too, appeared to be in a merry, gay mood.

Taking with us only canteens of water, we started with a lively, gay step up the lane that connected with a steep path that led to the ridge-top. Like most Americans, I spoke no Norwegian whatsoever. Like most Norwegians, Eric spoke good English. Even so, we spoke very little, preferring instead to listen to the sparkling, gay ripple of the nearby stream and the gay, spring songs of the woodland birds. Being early morning, the wooded hills seemed especially keenly alive and gay with a myriad of songs from chickadees, cardinals, wrens, robins, and dozens of other chipper, gay birds. A summer tanager in his flamboyant, gay red feathers landed on a branch close by and viewed us two interlopers with curiosity.

Eric and I reached the crest of the ridge and continued to follow the narrow path among the tall oaks, maples, and buckeyes. Eventually, the path opened up upon a gay, sunny meadow lit by the brilliantly gay blue of the sky. Patches of gayly colored wildflowers lent a joyous, gay feel to the meadow.

We paused for some time on the far tip of the meadow, viewing the green valley below. The warm sun accentuated the glittering, gay ripple of the distant, wandering river dividing the valley.

Eric took his shirt off, perhaps feeling quite warm in contrast to what he was used to in Norway. I stood behind and watched, he unaware of my licentious, gay attention.

Remembering that moment, I am reminded of a passage from Tennessee William’s story “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin,” when the lad observed his seventeen-year-old neighbor standing in the sunshine. “About people you knew in your childhood, it is rarely possible to remember their appearance except as ugly or beautiful, light or dark. I do not remember if Richard was light in the sense of being blond or if the lightness came from a quality in him deeper than hair or skin. Yes, probably both, for he was one of those people who move in the light, provided by practically everything around them. This detail I do remember. He was wearing a white shirt, and through its cloth could be seen the fair skin of his shoulders. And for the first time prematurely, I was aware of skin as an attraction. A thing that might be desirable to touch. This awareness entered my mind, my senses, like the sudden streak of flame that follows a comet.” There are about two dozen synonyms to the word “gay,” but perhaps that quotation is what “being gay” means most of all to many people.

© 29 Sept 2014 

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Favorite Fantasy by Will Stanton

I can address this topic of “Favorite Fantasy” either in a short, half-page essay, or I can go into complete detail in a much longer, thousand-page essay. I think I’ll go for the short one. That way, it won’t try our patience, either in my having to write it, or in your having to listen to it.

It’s not that I have one favorite fantasy; I have eleven thousand fantasies. They all have, however, just one, consistent theme. I’m not going to be maudlin about what I present, but I will be truthful, no matter how personal it is.

You already have heard from my previous presentations that I would have wished for a better childhood, a much more loving family, a much better up-bringing so that I would not have had so much baggage to drag along with me throughout my life.

In each of my fantasies, I see myself as indisputably worthy of being loved. I find the most compatible, loving partner. The partner is part of an ideal family. And my not having such a family, they fully accept me into their family.

In reality, it is far too late for me to experience my fantasy as I ideally would prefer it to be. I can imagine, however, that such a scenario actually could be possible for some younger people. The one, major element of my fantasy that seems to have no way of fitting into the real world is that, if I could achieve such a fulfilling fantasy, somehow I wish it could be permanent, that nothing could change for the worse, that such a wonderful life could go on forever.

I realize that this would be asking far too much, that my fantasy is far too removed from reality. I guess that’s why such dreams are called “fantasies.”

© 11 October 2013 

About the Author



I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Do I Have Your Dutronic Veebleveetzer Transmogrifier? by Will Stanton

I hope that whatever idiosyncrasies I may have are not off-putting and that, perhaps, they even may be at least mildly charming. Throughout all the years of my life, I do not recall ever having met anyone who was not at least somewhat idiosyncratic. Some people were far more than that; some were downright strange. I think some of them really should have had help.

When I was in college (when was that, 1902?), I was living in a dorm my freshman year. Just in that one dorm, there sure were a lot of peculiar people.

The strangest one of all was the poor fellow who thought that he had traveled several times to other planets around the vast universe. I do not recall from his lecture in the student lounge exactly how he managed interstellar travel and certainly not just by himself. Perhaps it was through the use of a unique machine, the Dutronic Veebleveetzer Transmogrifier. Or, perhaps he simply could instantaneously zap himself from point A to point B anywhere in the universe without any danger or damage to his mortal self. That’s a pretty good trick, if you can do that.

He adamantly did maintain, however, that he could prove his claim by demonstrating some of the powers taught him by aliens. One of the supposed powers that he had learned was the ability to walk through solid objects such as walls. I should not have to remind everyone that people, especially young thoughtless people, can find humor in the afflictions and misfortunes of others, and this was the case here. The laughing, jeering students demanded a demonstration, whereupon the fellow walked headlong into the cinder-block wall, knocking himself out. The students, thinking that they were quite clever, quickly picked up the stunned fellow and moved him to the other side of the wall. When the dizzy space-traveler woke up, he naturally was convinced that he had proved his claim. The students thought that this was all great fun, but I felt very sorry for the delusional kid. I hope that he did receive the help that he needed.

The dorm proctor apparently felt that at least a dozen of his charges were weird enough to house them all in a few rooms along one short hallway apart from the other students, rather like a psych ward. He did have one diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. I’m not quite sure how he made it into college or whether he actually remained.

It was Joe, however, that I’ll mention next. He was one hunk of a masculine freshman whose natural, great physical strength usually was not noted because he looked so young. No one could beat him in arm-wrestling. He sometimes made money with that ability. He had a habit of traveling out of town to rural road-houses where the inebriated laborers liked to display their masculinity by challenging each other to arm-wrestling. Joe had perfected his hustler act, appearing to be innocent and losing some small wagers. Once enough beer bottles had been raised and enough cash had been placed on the table, Joe suddenly overpowered his very surprised, final opponent. Joe would do that hustle in each roadhouse only once. Scooping up the cash, he made a discreet exit before the mystified losers decided that they had been taken and became angry.

Then there was Ted S. I’ll be mentioning him again in my October 28th reading. Apparently, Ted had developed several bad habits long before he became a freshman. One of them was a frequent overindulgence of alcohol, which I suppose was not too unusual for a party-school. What made Ted different was that he physically looked to be only fifteen, although he actually was eighteen; and he looked deceptively innocent. The trouble was that he lost all control when he drank too much. His distressed roommate finally had enough when Ted arrived back at the dorm room late one night and mistook the clothes closet for pissoir. The next day, Ted was moved to the weird ward.

The surname of one kid was Love, and he obviously thought that he was cut out to be a great lover. Although he was extremely cute and sexy and drove a Corvette, he was not quite so handsome as he thought that he should be. Being blond, he thought he should have a year-around tan, which is virtually impossible in that part of the country. So he spread generous portions of fake tanning lotion all over himself. We could spot him a block away because he was orange. At one-half block away, we could smell the lotion.

Sagmeister was probably the only true sex maniac I’ve ever met. He was a handsome twenty-something, but he really had a problem. I recall his standing in the lounge in front of a TV, talking with someone. A TV commercial with a pretty, buxom blond came on, which caught his attention. His speech slowed as his eyes became glued upon the delectable image. Then his speech trailed off completely and was replaced with loud, heavy breathing.

Sagmeister seemed to have a steady flow of guests to his room. As long as the guests were female, age did not seem to be a problem. I recall that, on one occasion, a pretty sixteen-year-old girl came out of his room and was wearing only a long, white, man’s shirt. On another occasion, however, he linked up with the well known town whore “Black Julie.” She was fifty-five and not what one would call attractive. As a matter of fact, she looked like (as the Texans say) “She was rode hard hard and put back into the barn wet.” That did not seem to bother Sagmeister. I guess that there’s no substitute for experience.

Now that I think of it, I am reminded that there were a bunch of other students with strange personalities. And now that I think of it, I guess whatever idiosyncrasies that I might have had just were not weird enough for anyone to pay much attention. Thank goodness for small blessings.

© 6 September 2013




About the Author 


I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.